Jet Set (2 page)

“T
hese are the West Stables, where you can board up to three of your horses. Additional horses have to be kept at the East Stables, which is such a drag! But you'll be happy to know that they have finally made the complete transformation to
organic
horse feed, so now we don't have to worry about our babies anymore!”

“Um, I actually don't have any babies,” I said.

“Don't have any babies! You poor sweetie!” I couldn't tell if the crisp English accent was sarcastic or not.

I was being guided around campus by Sofia Glenn, a member of the Golden Key Club (a group responsible for showing new students the ropes) who had been assigned to give my tour. (I was to refer to her as my “Sister Advisor,” and she was to refer to me as her “Apprentice.”) She was a confident, striking blonde whose chic British tone and modelesque bod immediately made her seem older, though she was a sophomore like me. The difference was she had freshman year at Van Pelt under her belt, which made her an expert compared to my newbie self. I followed Sofia obediently around the school, passing girls clad in full riding garb, right down to suede britches and chocolate brown velvet caps that, it appeared, they wore whether or not they were on a horse. Sofia had filled me in on some general campus information on the ride to the school, and continued her dialogue on our tour. She was nice, but I could tell I was probably tour number three or four of the day and it was a bit by rote.

“Yes, I guess it's a bummer. I would love to learn how to ride, but I bet I'm hopeless,” I confessed, pulling my light brown hair into a messy ponytail. Every kid I saw looked so polished. Note to self: look a tad less rolled-out-of-bed-ish.

“But I hear that you are a crackerjack on the tennis court,” said Sofia.

I reddened. “Really? Who told you that?” I asked quickly.

“Word travels fast,” she said, shrugging, and started down a winding path. “Everyone here is
someone.
You're the tennis star.”

Huh? It's not like I was walking around in all whites toting my racket.

“I mean, I guess I'm a good player…”

“You must be,” said Sofia with confidence. “No one here is mediocre. Everyone either has an extreme talent or…” She trailed off and looked away at the rolling verdant hills.

“Or?”

“Extreme wealth,” she said, staring at me evenly.

“Right.”

I still couldn't decide how open to be about my situation. Should I pretend to be like them or be self-deprecating and admit I was just a meager scholarship student? I didn't want to lie, and I didn't think everyone deserved the right to know my financial background, so my plan was just to try and fit in as much as I could without hiding or volunteering any information.

“Nice eyes,” Sofia said, looking so intently into my pupils it was as if she could see my brain, X-ray style. I thanked her sheepishly, noticing that her eyes were even bluer than mine. I couldn't quite get a read on her.

As we exited the stables, Sofia explained the way Van Pelt worked. “The school has about five hundred students, but each grade is divided into ‘sectionals'—basically classes. You'll be seeing a lot of the people in your sectional. You'll be assigned to the same tables at our dinner events, you'll have group meetings with them, and you'll have away trips with them. Basically you'll get really sick of them,” she said.

I nodded. Great. I could only hope I got cool people in my “sectional.”

We continued on through our tour, skipping only the ten-foot
hedge labyrinth and the boys' dormitory wing (called Le Chambord). Finally it was the moment I'd been waiting for. I'd seen the pictures, but even in person I was astounded by the tennis facility. They had enough courts to host every single grand slam. I couldn't wait to get out there. I could tell that Sofia was eager to continue, but I made her linger a little more in the tennis center, where they had state-of-the-art equipment like aerodynamic ball throwers and computers that analyzed your every stroke. After a quick peek into the plush “locker rooms,” replete with massage tables and massage therapists
standing by
(with buffet or your choice of aromatherapy oils), we ended up back on the floor of my dorm. I was eager to plop on my bed and digest everything, but Sofia continued to lead me down the grand arch-ceilinged hallways.

“Let me show you the lounge,” she insisted. “Wait till you see this.”

The “lounge” was more like a viewing room with plush chairs, plasma televisions, and a bartender waiting to take orders. There were three pretty girls comfortably ensconced on the sofas, chatting furiously in French.

“Hey, ladies,” said Sofia, motioning for me to come inside. “This is Lucy Peterson, our new classmate. Lucy, this is Antigone, Iman, and Victoria.”

“Hello,” acknowledged Antigone curtly.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured. These were my classmates? They looked so much older! Yikes. Antigone had sleek jet black hair down to her ass and heavily lined eyes, and she was clad in so
many designer logos it made my head spin. Iman was gorgeous, with skin the most wonderful latte brown and giant hazel eyes. Victoria had dirty-blond hair and what appeared to be a perpetual scowl. I noticed her give me the once-over and then glance away.

“You're the tennis player?” asked Victoria with an edge in her voice as she looked me up and down again.

“Um, yes! That's me. I feel like I should be in all whites or something!” I said awkwardly, realizing my identity was already branded on campus.

“I love tennis,” said Iman dreamily, not looking at me. “Tiggy, let's hit later!”

“Okay, well…see ya,” Victoria said coldly, dismissing me. It was as if she'd said
“Scram, new girl!”
I felt embarrassed and outsidery, clearly not wanted in their vicinity. Not that I really cared. I wasn't coming to Van Pelt to be the equivalent of homecoming queen: I wanted to nail my classes and kick butt on the courts and get into a top university. While the lounge was stunning, I really had zero desire to socialize there and waste time. I was at Van Pelt to excel.

I didn't dare ask Sofia about them until we were in my room with the door closed.

“So, are those, like, the power clique people?” I said, trying to be funny and sarcastic.

Sofia's smile widened into a big grin. She nodded. The ice was broken. Each school I went to, I knew the drill. There was always a pretty posse that ruled the school.

“You got it. They're called the Diamonds. Everyone knows who they are. Antigone is Theodoro Papadapolis's daughter.”

My face was blank.

“You know,” said Sofia with a slight eye roll. “The billionaire Greek shipping magnate. And Iman is the Princess of Zamumba. You
have
heard of Zamumba, haven't you?”

No. “Yes, of course.”

“And Victoria is a Von Hapsburg. I guess a princess or something, but then aren't all those Europeans titled in one way or another?”

“Not any that I know.” I was seriously in awe. A princess?
Two
princesses? I'd never mingled with royals. Now some things were starting to make sense: when I sent in my enrollment contracts, I also had to sign a thick document involving silence to the press, to prevent student spies from gabbing about their illustrious classmates.

“We can dish more about them later,” Sofia said with a sly wink. “Unfortunately they're in our sectional. So what do you think of your room?”

I had been too preoccupied by the amazing tour (and students straight out of the catalog) to look around fully and take it all in. My room was insane. As big as the house my family lived in when I was little. The furniture was immaculately restored antiques. Oil paintings and scenic watercolors caged in gold frames hung on the walls. The toile curtains framed a window that looked out on the picturesque Swiss Alps. And what was most amazing was that, unlike my
classmates, I hadn't flown in a decorator to custom appoint the room; it had been left as is by my predecessor, the student who had lived in it the previous year. She'd breezed out of there leaving every last curtain tassel. I guess since it had been all made specifically for this room, she didn't need it when she left. I drank it all in, still shocked I was even there. But right at that moment, what was beckoning me was the king-size bed that loomed in the corner, with fluffy white sheets and a giant cashmere throw draped across the end. I just wanted to dive in and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Sofia seemed to notice I was tired, so she gave me a small hug.

“Listen, do not let those wretched beeyotches get you down,” she instructed. “Now rest up and come knock on my door when you're up to it. You're going to love it here, promise!” She smiled. She headed for the door and then turned back to me at the last second. “And, dahling, don't worry about the whole scholarship thing. My lips are sealed.”

T
he blood slowly ran out of my face.

“Um…yeah. So much for confidentiality on the financial aid form,” I stammered, trying to laugh it off. But inside I was livid. The fact that I was on a full ride was not need-to-know info for my fellow students; I suddenly felt branded as the bum of Van Pelt.

“Hey, don't fret, dahling,” she said. Her voice had the regal diction of Queen Elizabeth herself. For all I knew, they were related. I could sense already from her tour that everyone there
was all two degrees apart from a throne. It was like the Kevin Bacon game but with royals.

“Well, it's just strange having everyone know my situation,” I said, focusing on her shoes: five-inch peep-toe pumps.

“They don't,” she said, glossy lips pursing into a Cameron-Diaz-meets-Cheshire-Cat smile. “I simply make it my business to know
every
thing about
every
body. I have my spies. But I like you, Wimbledon. You seem very observant to me. And sharp. You know, a lot of kids here don't give a hoot about academics—it's all about the next social event.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not incredibly social. I mean, I'd like to be, in some ways, since this is my first school where I'll actually have time to forge a social life, but I'm really here to do well in class and play tons of tennis. And quite frankly, even if I wanted to gel with everybody, I'm not sure they'd be into me, without my ponies and all,” I joked.

“Don't worry,” she comforted me. “No one will ever know you don't have a billion like everyone else here. Your secret's safe with me.”

“It's not that I want to be secretive about my scholarship…I just don't want it advertised,” I said. “So, how do you know so much after just one year here?” I asked.

She let out a throaty laugh like an opera singer I'd seen on TV, head thrown back dramatically, red lips parted. “Oh! Dahling,” she said, coming to sit on my bed beside me, “I am practically the eyes and ears of Van Pelt! In one year I've already harvested the
dirt on every priss who strolls these hallowed halls. Don't forget, I'm in the Golden Key Club. I give tours to new students but also to prospective applicants, so not only am I wandering the campus all day, I also have access to everyone's files. Stick with me and I'll show you the ropes, as it were.”

“Is there a lot of dirt to be had?” I asked curiously. I was semi-fascinated. I couldn't believe Sofia admitted to being such a snoop! I kind of liked it, though. Even if I was here to score a kick-ass college spot, I was intrigued by the world I'd been plunged into, and clearly she knew every last detail about it.

“These people live the most extraordinary lives—you can't imagine.”

I liked the way she drew out the word
extraordinary
, as if it were twenty syllables. She had edge. I could listen to her English accent for hours, and had a feeling I would. I could tell we had the potential to be friends—she had a fun, confident way about her, and no one else was exactly running up to meet the new chick. While we were quite different, her warm yet mischievous grin was a comfort.

“I feel like I'm at the U.N. and I'm the McDonald's-eating American,” I confessed.

“Rubbish!” she snapped, patting my head. “There's another American, some Texan. Oh! And a Rolling Stones offspring who was raised bicontinental—London and New York. Don't worry. You'll adore it here! There's a crop of positively delicious new guys, and I watched the whole lot of them approach Le Chambord last
evening. We'll get you settled in with some lovely lad who would simply love to get all caught up in your tennis net, so to speak!”

She winked.

I blushed.

While I won't pretend she hadn't read my mind, it was odd to dive in so quickly to the topic of the opposite sex. Due to my rigorous tennis schedule, I hadn't dated since I had split from a mini-relationship on the base. Since then, life had been a whirlwind of three-hour daily practices at each of my schools, travel to tournaments every weekend, and morning workouts. Not a ton of time to fall in love.

But while the tour of Van Pelt's vast grounds intimidated me, it had planted several seeds of hope as I noticed many a hot charmer strolling by. Wait:
Lucy, cut it out!
I told myself.
You are here for academics and tennis.
With a lame average, my scholarship would poof away like these kids' platinum card bills, and while they could spend hours studying, I had to be on the courts; I could not get distracted by the allure of some British lord or Spanish equestrian.

“Hold on a second.” Sofia disappeared out of my room while my mind insisted on wandering. How cool would it be to hook up with a royal? Or the child of a rock star? Although my parents would be less than thrilled with the latter. They were really strict, and my father absolutely recoiled when he saw anyone with long hair or even the smallest tattoo. I scratched the rocker from my fantasies.

“Here,” said Sofia, returning to my room and tossing a pile of European social magazines like
OK!
and
HELLO!
on my bed. “These are practically a facebook for Van Pelt. Have a gander before you crash in that bed of yours.” She smiled with a wink, patted my head, and wished me good night. I reclined into my fluffy pillow and picked up one of the magazines, looking at the glossy pictures from the Crillon international debutante ball in Paris, where all the girls were clad in couture, their escorts in white-tie and gloves. While I was happy to at least gab with Sofia, I was beginning to worry that she might be the
only
one I could relate to—the camera-ready perfection of the classmates I spied in the magazines kind of made me feel like I could never live up to the Van Pelt standard of beauty. I'd always been told I was pretty, but I know I'm the gal-on-the-tennis-court kind of pretty, not the Paris runway knockout. My thoughts made me weary and my eyelids began to close, and the oversize, vibrantly colored magazine slipped to the floor.